I am from twirling batons and basketball sized bullfrogs that were real,
From thick velveeta cheese and fried, curled bologna sandwiches.
I am from the color green and the way it is means the woods are alive.
I am from the softness of moss on the rotting tree stump, from
the exotic trillium springing through the still-cold dirt on a warm spring day.
I am from beauty and conflict and love that sometimes broke from standing too close to the edge. I am from dancing and remorse.
I am from birthday parties with girly wrapping paper taped over little girl makeup and walking dolls that were new in the box from my mother’s mother who loved me with those gifts and who revealed on her deathbed heart-crushing secrets locked in the vault her whole life until they would no longer keep.
I am from an unkempt crowded kitchen with hardened eggs on plates piled high in the sink and from an urgent need to clean when someone visits so they wouldn’t know we were dirty.
I am from my father’s mother whose husband demanded sex every single day and after many pregnancies and five living children she found a way to stop the life of the last one because six was too many and she told us this story on a road trip to Branson where she cried from too much joy because Lawrence Welk was her favorite and the show stole her breath.
I am from my handsome, charming father whose work was blue collar, from a woodworker who could have been a master but instead drank beer while using the saw without care and cut his index finger off because he didn’t know how good he could be.
I am from a mother who tried to do the right thing by us and mostly did but sometimes didn’t and it didn’t matter because we knew we were so, so loved.
I am from a mother who cried when she was baptized in the Methodist church at almost sixty years old because it finally meant she was good.
I am from the Great Lake State of Michigan by way of Alcais Lorraine and Eastern Europe and from writers and artists and actors whose genes beg me to express and from the feeling that I’m born from and for greatness.
I am from tender, fatty pot roast with soft carrots, potatoes and onions on Sundays and from laughter and tummies full of happy.
I am from sweet chocolate cake oddly made of mayonnaise, and lugs of Traverse City cherries.
I am from generations of lovers and achievers and mistake-makers and workers and creators who only ever did the best they could because that’s how life works, until we know how to do better.
I am from cup of coffee in the morning poured by the loving hand
From drop of milk, losing its whiteness, going under the surface,
adsorbing into a crunchy biscuit that will be smashed with a tongue.
I am a lilac from my grandmother’s garden, a lilac growing behind the house,
Wrapping a cocoon of tenuous fragrance whispering calmness into the ears
Yet staying proud during the storm.
I’m from a rainy Easter with my mother painting eggs and from the bread
was served on holy morning.
From Nina and from Valentina, from warmth of kitchen, beads on a neck and self written postcards.
I am from sorrows, bitten lips and insecurities, from being better, trying harder and keep going.
From cute nicknames, hands on my hair and tender kisses on the cheeks.
I’m from a temple with a smell that heavily lays on the shoulders and from strict faces, looking down, whom I ask for forgiveness, with candles moving from the slightest breath.
I’m from a room that’s filled with hopes, with noise of ambulance, with heat and fears,
From the milk of the woman whose face I don’t remember, from bread sliced thick and tea pitch black.
From leaving things behind, a filled suitcase and a purring cat. From restarting, creating a new beginning and looking further. I am from my mother and my father. From cement, wood and tiles, steel fittings are inside me.
I am from steel and lilac that taught me all I know.
I am from grilled cheese, all ready to eat while I watched The Flintstones when I came home from school for my lunchbreak.
I am from tequila and Canadian Club, contraband stolen from the parents, sometimes mixed in the same bottle.
I am from a prairie farm with an outhouse that my Mom would paint white every summer in an effort to spiff things up, just as I’m from a northern city with a strong skeleton of grain and arteries made of oil.
I am from Hockey Night in Canada and Gord Downie giving us Ahead By A Century.
I am from acts of service in succession until our fingers bled and our souls ran dry which is why we went to church on Sunday to sing Amazing Grace and replenish our souls so we can perform many more acts of service with no thought to what truly fulfills us, because you always know – service above self. The self must be buried.
I am from money-doesn’t-grow-on-trees and, while it is never okay to call a boy, I can do things far beyond what I am actually qualified for and hell-and-high-water will be moved to make sure I get a higher education.
I am from the United Church of Canada who was the first church to ordain gay ministers, a turn of events my Mom welcomed wholeheartedly while my Dad left undiscussed.
I am from Alberta and strong pioneer stock, from perogies (even though our bodies carry not a drop of Ukrainian blood), and homemade chocolate chip cookies.
I am from my mother’s brother, the one who fell into the well on the family farm, who managed to hang on by his fingertips for what probably seemed like an eternity but was likely only a few minutes until my Grandma heard him and got help which was a good thing because he was the one who managed to get married when ‘hell froze over’ (his words not mine) which turned out to be the coldest day on record in Alberta history so the wood stove in the country church had to be lit the night before and someone had to tend it overnight so it was warm enough for the wedding, just as I’m from my Dad’s sister who, after raising five children, would leave her husband and go camping alone and we would visit her at her campsite by the river and it would take me many years to realize what a rebel she was because none of the women did that back then, and how amazing it must be to camp, alone, by a small river that we called a creek.
I am from granola-and-apple juice, vintage clothes and camping trips.
I am from the apartment on the second floor with the shared backyard where rhubarb grows, and peeled-off wallpaper in the bunkbed room.
I am from buzzing summer cicadas and warm, soft sand dunes that protected and warmed me from the chill of Lake Ontario, my blue lips betraying me when I insisted I wasn’t cold.
I’m from dope-smoking hippies and astrology charts, from Muriel and David, and from Aileen and a man my mom never knew. I’m from Halloween parties with the adults and Dallas on Friday nights. From “Better safe than sorry” and “Finish your plate – there are starving children in Africa.”
I’m from born-again Christian after praying to be saved from alcoholism and feeling the hand of God.
I’m from the Beaches of Toronto. From my dad, whose family came over from Guyana, with his accountant father and his mother, whose chicken curry and hot sauces have landed on all of our tables long after my Grandma left the earth. I’m from my mom’s healthy “cosmic sandwiches” with tomatoes and avocados and cheese and covered in alfalfa sprouts, which I thought looked like “old lady’s pubic hair.”
When I was 2, my whole family went on a macrobiotic diet hoping to avoid the exploratory surgery the doctors said I needed. After weeks of eating adzuki beans, brown rice, and nori, my lungs had become clear.
I am from questioning minds and rebellious attitudes. So even though I complained about my oddball, rice ball school lunches, they shaped who I am.
Going against the grain made me feel like I didn’t belong, but it also taught me to think for myself – because it just might save me.
It was also my birthday a couple of days ago! With my parents visiting, it's only now that I get to share my piece, so here goes–
I am from Wednesday morning couch forts,
from the Famous Five and Mercurochrome.
I am from the dirt in the vegetable garden
(crumbly, clay-heavy, it clung to everything),
from barn swallows and
the linden tree that held the washing line.
I am from the upper Loire,
born wild from an extinct volcano,
whose basalt pipes still sing me home.
I am from butter churning and hay making, from grand-parents Pétrus and Marie,
more fourmi than cigale.
I’m from skeins of yarn and Champs-Elysées on TV,
from “Finish your plate” and “Go play outside”.
I am from Sunday mass at 8am,
and praying at great-grandparents’ graves on All Saints’ Day.
I am from the volcanic heart of France,
from Marie’s civet de lapin, blood-dark and thyme-scented,
and Mémé’s blackberry jam.
I am from the POW tattoo on Pépé’s arm,
the hand my father lost to a power saw.
But by the house my mother was born in and my father rebuilt, stone by stone, for me and my brood, there is a staunch rosebush, my grandad's bane. Hacked back many a time, always it sprouts back, always it flowers – only skipping its annual bloom the spring that Pétrus died.
I am from those roses, stubborn roots and fleeting petals, thorny stems and dewy scent, testimony to all that endures.
This! "... always it flowers -- only skipping its annual bloom the spring that Pétrus died." and "I am from those roses, stubborn roots and fleeting petals, thorny stems and dewy scent, testimony to all that endures."
Thank you, thank you, thank you for this beautiful prompt and writing exercise. A few months ago, I tried something similar and could not move through it. This time, I could and posted it on my own Substack last Friday (linking to WITD). I share it now here (hopefully).
I am from paperback books, from butter on dark toast and mocha International Delight with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
I am from the Great Lakes, freshwater in my blood calling me back when I lived on the high plains.
I’m from cold-cut family lunches after church Sundays, stubbornness, songs, and questioning everything.
From Virginia & Clark and Catherine & Ode, from clean-freaks, perfectionists, bankrupt pillars of church, and euchre-playing alcoholics.
I am from “go outside and play, let the grown-ups talk,” and “remember, religion is the opiate of the people.”
I am from American Baptists (the “liberal” ones) to losing my religion, REM-style, to Unitarian, with love at the center of everything.
I’m from Detroit via Canada, Scotland, Germany, and who-knew, even Spain (thanks, 23andMe!), from homemade shortbread, sweet-potato rolls, and springerle.
From my dad’s dad who, at 56, fell asleep on the couch and never woke up from a heart attack, and from my dad’s mom, whose hospital bed I climbed into during our last visit while she was alive and still knew me. From my mom’s mom who lacerated with her profane tongue my mom’s dad who probably cut out on her while mothering their five kids.
In a small dresser drawer lie folded my grandma’s cloth hankies; I wear a sapphire ring that was my mimi’s.
I’m a mixture from atmospheres sweet, humid, stubborn, cold, questioning and profane trying to sound out my own story.
I am from a black medical bag and a piano. From packing tape that you need to wet to stick, flattened moving boxes, and Mayflower moving vans.
I am from invasive bindweed, amongst monster-size Bleeding Heart perennials, that emerge in the spring, fleetingly, and all but disappear in the heat.
I am from bedtime stories, laughter, and curly hair.
From Eddie and Marguerite, my parents who died an early death, from my mother’s mother, who dropped dead at eighty-three, and from my mother’s father, who died one month later from a broken heart. From Grandhubby who had an infectious laugh and a sweet tooth and Grandmother who baked a small chocolate cake every morning.
I’m from the adventuresome, the wanderlust, and raising an orphaned grey squirrel.
From God, who took my parents home when I was a child, and be sure your sins will find you out.
I’m from Seventh-day Adventists, from wearing dresses to school, from vegetarians, and from sitting around on Saturdays, looking piously out the window at our heathen neighbors with staggering self-righteousness.
I’m from Germany, where I was conceived, from Saratov Russia, New York, Colorado, and California. I’m from Cabbage Buns and Blueberry Streusal Coffee Cake, from milk toast, from shredded wheat buns swimming in strawberry jam, and from pumpernickel bread.
I am from Lake Phalen, Keller Lake and Lake Gervais, interconnected lakes representing the other families I grew up with.
And here, in a small oak cabinet drawer, is my holy altar—the fourteen photographs I have of my parents, and my collection of rocks in the shape of a heart.
I am from those photos with smiling faces, and from the delicate pink and white blossoms, symbolizing sorrow and lost love.
I am from a bedroom I shared with my brother, from a quiet neighborhood where I was beaten up because I didn’t believe in Christ as son of God, I am from the bomb shelter under City Hall that I dreamed and dreamed would not have space for me and family.
I am from concrete patios, muscle cars on sun baked and cracked driveways waxed to a Simonized shine, I am from Van De Camp’s chicken-pot pies and Ralph’s frozen fish sticks.
I am from a place of ancient fault lines where major earthquakes broke the illusion of a never-let-you-down paradise, from just outside Laurel Canyon where folk and rock somebodies played music, smoked dope.
I am from play-it-safe when around my mother to avoid verbal abuse, I am from Sunday breakfasts of crisp bacon, sesame seed bagels and cream cheese, 2 eggs side-by-each facing the sun.
I am from Sam and Sam, Esther and Esther who escaped pogroms in Russia, from factory and garment workers, from late hour bourbon with Tom and Esther while watching Steve Allan flickering on the black and white TV.
I am from “I wish I never had children”, from “why aren’t you more like Bill who calls his mother every day and cleans the pool and vacuums the floors and rugs.”
I am from a Bar Mitzvah I never wanted, from Passover meals and rituals at my mother’s parent’s home where my grandfather raced through the Haggadah so we could eat, from the pleasure of my grandmother’s Gefilte fish.
I am from quick-built knock-off ranch-style bungalows, from ever increasing bank loans, from the city of freeways which were not free flowing, from smog and the head it gave me.
.
I am from my father who died of liver cancer, my mother who died of complications from Alzheimer’s, from my twin brother who taught me how to make friends and how to live when you’re dying of brain cancer.
I am from swearing that I wouldn’t be like my parents, from not being demonstrably loved, from not being held, from a plastic cover on the living room sofa, from moments of peace and connection when I was with my brother in our small bedroom.
Really liked your poem! So interesting to describe your roots in such a more abstract, poetic way. I definitely want to give it a try, too. Feeling inspired, thank you : ) - and happy birthday!
I am from twirling batons and basketball sized bullfrogs that were real,
From thick velveeta cheese and fried, curled bologna sandwiches.
I am from the color green and the way it is means the woods are alive.
I am from the softness of moss on the rotting tree stump, from
the exotic trillium springing through the still-cold dirt on a warm spring day.
I am from beauty and conflict and love that sometimes broke from standing too close to the edge. I am from dancing and remorse.
I am from birthday parties with girly wrapping paper taped over little girl makeup and walking dolls that were new in the box from my mother’s mother who loved me with those gifts and who revealed on her deathbed heart-crushing secrets locked in the vault her whole life until they would no longer keep.
I am from an unkempt crowded kitchen with hardened eggs on plates piled high in the sink and from an urgent need to clean when someone visits so they wouldn’t know we were dirty.
I am from my father’s mother whose husband demanded sex every single day and after many pregnancies and five living children she found a way to stop the life of the last one because six was too many and she told us this story on a road trip to Branson where she cried from too much joy because Lawrence Welk was her favorite and the show stole her breath.
I am from my handsome, charming father whose work was blue collar, from a woodworker who could have been a master but instead drank beer while using the saw without care and cut his index finger off because he didn’t know how good he could be.
I am from a mother who tried to do the right thing by us and mostly did but sometimes didn’t and it didn’t matter because we knew we were so, so loved.
I am from a mother who cried when she was baptized in the Methodist church at almost sixty years old because it finally meant she was good.
I am from the Great Lake State of Michigan by way of Alcais Lorraine and Eastern Europe and from writers and artists and actors whose genes beg me to express and from the feeling that I’m born from and for greatness.
I am from tender, fatty pot roast with soft carrots, potatoes and onions on Sundays and from laughter and tummies full of happy.
I am from sweet chocolate cake oddly made of mayonnaise, and lugs of Traverse City cherries.
I am from generations of lovers and achievers and mistake-makers and workers and creators who only ever did the best they could because that’s how life works, until we know how to do better.
I am from cup of coffee in the morning poured by the loving hand
From drop of milk, losing its whiteness, going under the surface,
adsorbing into a crunchy biscuit that will be smashed with a tongue.
I am a lilac from my grandmother’s garden, a lilac growing behind the house,
Wrapping a cocoon of tenuous fragrance whispering calmness into the ears
Yet staying proud during the storm.
I’m from a rainy Easter with my mother painting eggs and from the bread
was served on holy morning.
From Nina and from Valentina, from warmth of kitchen, beads on a neck and self written postcards.
I am from sorrows, bitten lips and insecurities, from being better, trying harder and keep going.
From cute nicknames, hands on my hair and tender kisses on the cheeks.
I’m from a temple with a smell that heavily lays on the shoulders and from strict faces, looking down, whom I ask for forgiveness, with candles moving from the slightest breath.
I’m from a room that’s filled with hopes, with noise of ambulance, with heat and fears,
From the milk of the woman whose face I don’t remember, from bread sliced thick and tea pitch black.
From leaving things behind, a filled suitcase and a purring cat. From restarting, creating a new beginning and looking further. I am from my mother and my father. From cement, wood and tiles, steel fittings are inside me.
I am from steel and lilac that taught me all I know.
I am from my cousins hand-me-down-bicycle.
From Ford Econoline Vans and Pogo Balls.
Fading, flickering, the sunset through the pines on our drive home.
I am from blackberries, sunsweet and bitter, fresh from the vine.
I'm from cackling aunties around grandmas table and hard work.
From Alfred and Broemer.
I'm from the stories we tell when we're all together and the love of a shared meal.
From "you're letting all the hot air in" and stories of survival.
I'm from spirituality, circumstance.
I'm from Missouri, Cherokee Pass, recycled margarine tubs filled with mushy pinto beans, fresh apple cake.
From the grandfather who charmed bees out of the sky on a bright summer day.
I am from grilled cheese, all ready to eat while I watched The Flintstones when I came home from school for my lunchbreak.
I am from tequila and Canadian Club, contraband stolen from the parents, sometimes mixed in the same bottle.
I am from a prairie farm with an outhouse that my Mom would paint white every summer in an effort to spiff things up, just as I’m from a northern city with a strong skeleton of grain and arteries made of oil.
I am from Hockey Night in Canada and Gord Downie giving us Ahead By A Century.
I am from acts of service in succession until our fingers bled and our souls ran dry which is why we went to church on Sunday to sing Amazing Grace and replenish our souls so we can perform many more acts of service with no thought to what truly fulfills us, because you always know – service above self. The self must be buried.
I am from money-doesn’t-grow-on-trees and, while it is never okay to call a boy, I can do things far beyond what I am actually qualified for and hell-and-high-water will be moved to make sure I get a higher education.
I am from the United Church of Canada who was the first church to ordain gay ministers, a turn of events my Mom welcomed wholeheartedly while my Dad left undiscussed.
I am from Alberta and strong pioneer stock, from perogies (even though our bodies carry not a drop of Ukrainian blood), and homemade chocolate chip cookies.
I am from my mother’s brother, the one who fell into the well on the family farm, who managed to hang on by his fingertips for what probably seemed like an eternity but was likely only a few minutes until my Grandma heard him and got help which was a good thing because he was the one who managed to get married when ‘hell froze over’ (his words not mine) which turned out to be the coldest day on record in Alberta history so the wood stove in the country church had to be lit the night before and someone had to tend it overnight so it was warm enough for the wedding, just as I’m from my Dad’s sister who, after raising five children, would leave her husband and go camping alone and we would visit her at her campsite by the river and it would take me many years to realize what a rebel she was because none of the women did that back then, and how amazing it must be to camp, alone, by a small river that we called a creek.
I am from granola-and-apple juice, vintage clothes and camping trips.
I am from the apartment on the second floor with the shared backyard where rhubarb grows, and peeled-off wallpaper in the bunkbed room.
I am from buzzing summer cicadas and warm, soft sand dunes that protected and warmed me from the chill of Lake Ontario, my blue lips betraying me when I insisted I wasn’t cold.
I’m from dope-smoking hippies and astrology charts, from Muriel and David, and from Aileen and a man my mom never knew. I’m from Halloween parties with the adults and Dallas on Friday nights. From “Better safe than sorry” and “Finish your plate – there are starving children in Africa.”
I’m from born-again Christian after praying to be saved from alcoholism and feeling the hand of God.
I’m from the Beaches of Toronto. From my dad, whose family came over from Guyana, with his accountant father and his mother, whose chicken curry and hot sauces have landed on all of our tables long after my Grandma left the earth. I’m from my mom’s healthy “cosmic sandwiches” with tomatoes and avocados and cheese and covered in alfalfa sprouts, which I thought looked like “old lady’s pubic hair.”
When I was 2, my whole family went on a macrobiotic diet hoping to avoid the exploratory surgery the doctors said I needed. After weeks of eating adzuki beans, brown rice, and nori, my lungs had become clear.
I am from questioning minds and rebellious attitudes. So even though I complained about my oddball, rice ball school lunches, they shaped who I am.
Going against the grain made me feel like I didn’t belong, but it also taught me to think for myself – because it just might save me.
It was also my birthday a couple of days ago! With my parents visiting, it's only now that I get to share my piece, so here goes–
I am from Wednesday morning couch forts,
from the Famous Five and Mercurochrome.
I am from the dirt in the vegetable garden
(crumbly, clay-heavy, it clung to everything),
from barn swallows and
the linden tree that held the washing line.
I am from the upper Loire,
born wild from an extinct volcano,
whose basalt pipes still sing me home.
I am from butter churning and hay making, from grand-parents Pétrus and Marie,
more fourmi than cigale.
I’m from skeins of yarn and Champs-Elysées on TV,
from “Finish your plate” and “Go play outside”.
I am from Sunday mass at 8am,
and praying at great-grandparents’ graves on All Saints’ Day.
I am from the volcanic heart of France,
from Marie’s civet de lapin, blood-dark and thyme-scented,
and Mémé’s blackberry jam.
I am from the POW tattoo on Pépé’s arm,
the hand my father lost to a power saw.
But by the house my mother was born in and my father rebuilt, stone by stone, for me and my brood, there is a staunch rosebush, my grandad's bane. Hacked back many a time, always it sprouts back, always it flowers – only skipping its annual bloom the spring that Pétrus died.
I am from those roses, stubborn roots and fleeting petals, thorny stems and dewy scent, testimony to all that endures.
Annette! This is SO lovely!
This! "... always it flowers -- only skipping its annual bloom the spring that Pétrus died." and "I am from those roses, stubborn roots and fleeting petals, thorny stems and dewy scent, testimony to all that endures."
Thank you Serena, glad you like it so much 😊
https://substack.com/home/post/p-161458886
Thank you, thank you, thank you for this beautiful prompt and writing exercise. A few months ago, I tried something similar and could not move through it. This time, I could and posted it on my own Substack last Friday (linking to WITD). I share it now here (hopefully).
https://somedaynow.substack.com/p/from-lilacs-and-holy-days
From Sweet and Profane
I am from paperback books, from butter on dark toast and mocha International Delight with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
I am from the Great Lakes, freshwater in my blood calling me back when I lived on the high plains.
I’m from cold-cut family lunches after church Sundays, stubbornness, songs, and questioning everything.
From Virginia & Clark and Catherine & Ode, from clean-freaks, perfectionists, bankrupt pillars of church, and euchre-playing alcoholics.
I am from “go outside and play, let the grown-ups talk,” and “remember, religion is the opiate of the people.”
I am from American Baptists (the “liberal” ones) to losing my religion, REM-style, to Unitarian, with love at the center of everything.
I’m from Detroit via Canada, Scotland, Germany, and who-knew, even Spain (thanks, 23andMe!), from homemade shortbread, sweet-potato rolls, and springerle.
From my dad’s dad who, at 56, fell asleep on the couch and never woke up from a heart attack, and from my dad’s mom, whose hospital bed I climbed into during our last visit while she was alive and still knew me. From my mom’s mom who lacerated with her profane tongue my mom’s dad who probably cut out on her while mothering their five kids.
In a small dresser drawer lie folded my grandma’s cloth hankies; I wear a sapphire ring that was my mimi’s.
I’m a mixture from atmospheres sweet, humid, stubborn, cold, questioning and profane trying to sound out my own story.
"... trying to sound out my own story." -- I love that! Aren't we all?
From Bleeding Hearts and Heart Rocks
I am from a black medical bag and a piano. From packing tape that you need to wet to stick, flattened moving boxes, and Mayflower moving vans.
I am from invasive bindweed, amongst monster-size Bleeding Heart perennials, that emerge in the spring, fleetingly, and all but disappear in the heat.
I am from bedtime stories, laughter, and curly hair.
From Eddie and Marguerite, my parents who died an early death, from my mother’s mother, who dropped dead at eighty-three, and from my mother’s father, who died one month later from a broken heart. From Grandhubby who had an infectious laugh and a sweet tooth and Grandmother who baked a small chocolate cake every morning.
I’m from the adventuresome, the wanderlust, and raising an orphaned grey squirrel.
From God, who took my parents home when I was a child, and be sure your sins will find you out.
I’m from Seventh-day Adventists, from wearing dresses to school, from vegetarians, and from sitting around on Saturdays, looking piously out the window at our heathen neighbors with staggering self-righteousness.
I’m from Germany, where I was conceived, from Saratov Russia, New York, Colorado, and California. I’m from Cabbage Buns and Blueberry Streusal Coffee Cake, from milk toast, from shredded wheat buns swimming in strawberry jam, and from pumpernickel bread.
I am from Lake Phalen, Keller Lake and Lake Gervais, interconnected lakes representing the other families I grew up with.
And here, in a small oak cabinet drawer, is my holy altar—the fourteen photographs I have of my parents, and my collection of rocks in the shape of a heart.
I am from those photos with smiling faces, and from the delicate pink and white blossoms, symbolizing sorrow and lost love.
Belated birthday greetings! I loved your I AM poem. And these poems in the comments. Wowza.
I am from ocean swimming pools
From Weet-Bix and Vegemite
Wearing thongs across yellow, squeaky sand
I am from star jasmine, lantana and frangipani
Scents of my wild teenage years
I'm from celebrating life (regularly)
and drowning our sorrows
From Gavin and Peg
I'm from the laughter and worry
Dad telling me my sister could fly
and Mum: the neighbours are watching
I'm from Irish Catholic roots
and it's a load of baloney
I'm from windy Wellington, Newport Beach, Yorkshire, County Cork
and the shores of Loch Lomond
I'm from snakes and ladders, arty pursuits, mango daiquiris, losses and gains,
all the laughter and sorrow ...
I am from a bedroom I shared with my brother, from a quiet neighborhood where I was beaten up because I didn’t believe in Christ as son of God, I am from the bomb shelter under City Hall that I dreamed and dreamed would not have space for me and family.
I am from concrete patios, muscle cars on sun baked and cracked driveways waxed to a Simonized shine, I am from Van De Camp’s chicken-pot pies and Ralph’s frozen fish sticks.
I am from a place of ancient fault lines where major earthquakes broke the illusion of a never-let-you-down paradise, from just outside Laurel Canyon where folk and rock somebodies played music, smoked dope.
I am from play-it-safe when around my mother to avoid verbal abuse, I am from Sunday breakfasts of crisp bacon, sesame seed bagels and cream cheese, 2 eggs side-by-each facing the sun.
I am from Sam and Sam, Esther and Esther who escaped pogroms in Russia, from factory and garment workers, from late hour bourbon with Tom and Esther while watching Steve Allan flickering on the black and white TV.
I am from “I wish I never had children”, from “why aren’t you more like Bill who calls his mother every day and cleans the pool and vacuums the floors and rugs.”
I am from a Bar Mitzvah I never wanted, from Passover meals and rituals at my mother’s parent’s home where my grandfather raced through the Haggadah so we could eat, from the pleasure of my grandmother’s Gefilte fish.
I am from quick-built knock-off ranch-style bungalows, from ever increasing bank loans, from the city of freeways which were not free flowing, from smog and the head it gave me.
.
I am from my father who died of liver cancer, my mother who died of complications from Alzheimer’s, from my twin brother who taught me how to make friends and how to live when you’re dying of brain cancer.
I am from swearing that I wouldn’t be like my parents, from not being demonstrably loved, from not being held, from a plastic cover on the living room sofa, from moments of peace and connection when I was with my brother in our small bedroom.
breathtakingly beautiful, Ray.
Thank you Trisha for your comment, went straight to my heart
I love this poem. Taught it to my HS kids for years. I learned it from Linda Christiansen at Read, Write, Think. Your response is so great.
Really liked your poem! So interesting to describe your roots in such a more abstract, poetic way. I definitely want to give it a try, too. Feeling inspired, thank you : ) - and happy birthday!
Happppyyyu Birthdayyyyyy!!!!!